


Miles To Go

by wolfstarheart



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Light Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, i love tony and steve and i'd die for em both
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 16:19:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11832441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfstarheart/pseuds/wolfstarheart
Summary: Tony can't sleep. Steve can't either.Or the one where Steve and Tony finally talk. And watch the Scooby-Doo movie. That too.





	Miles To Go

_Miles to go before I sleep._ He remembers inscribing the words with trembling hands on one of his first prototypes of DUM-E, hoping against hope that it would work this time. He’d never been a poetic type of person— the winding, flowery language never really made sense to him— but it’d seemed appropriate at the time, fueled by coffee and energy drinks as he holed up in his father’s workshop trying to get this damn thing to come to life. (It hadn’t, not that time, and Tony moved on to shorter inscriptions, for practicality’s sake, when the number of discarded trials increased). 

Now, he thinks his teenage self didn’t know what sleep deprivation really felt like at all. Sure, he used to stay up, excitement for his latest invention keeping him from falling asleep. But at least he could. Back then (before his parents had died, at least), when he got so tired that even caffeine wouldn’t do the trick, he’d lay down on his couch and fall into easy, dreamless slumber that would last for a concerning number of hours before he’d be awoken by Jarvis or Rhodey. The point is, at least he _could_ sleep. 

Tony can’t anymore. 

After the wormhole— he’d been tired, but adrenaline (at least that’s what he told himself it was) had kept him up. He’d gone down to the workshop after the others had retired to their floors, tried tinkering with his suit, but his hands kept shaking and he figured that sawing his hand off would be pretty counterproductive. So he’d just lain there, in his artisanal wood bed that probably cost more than a small country’s GDP, underneath the fluffy comforter that smelled like vanilla, and shut his eyes. He didn’t intend to _sleep_ , but maybe he could get a bit of rest, if only his mind would shut off. 

But he’d fallen asleep anyway, and wasn’t that a good way of putting it? _Falling_. He was falling from the wormhole, hurtling down to the city so fast everything was a blur. He could feel himself dying even as he considered the odds of survival (low, low enough that he hadn’t dared to hope that he’d make it). His breath was catching in his lungs, his head beginning to throb, and then he was awake again. 

“How long,” Tony whispers before his voice gives out. He tries finishing his question, but his lungs refuse to cooperate, and there’s a giant lump in his throat that refuses to go down, and it kind of feels like he’s dying again. 

Jarvis, thankfully, fills in the blanks. “You were asleep 41 minutes,” he says. Tony knows he’s only imagining the concern in the AI’s voice, and yet part of him wishes it was real. He finally manages to breathe, a gasp of freezing heavy air (when did it get so cold?) that stings his throat as he exhales. Reaching up with hands that feel too heavy to be his, he feels sweat collecting at his hairline. His skin, cold and clammy, seems foreign to him. So he tosses the blanket aside and gets off the bed.Normally he’d go for a drink, and yeah, that bottle of expensive whiskey the ambassador of wherever the fuck had gifted him is burning a hole through his cupboard, but. He makes a beeline for the coffee machine once he makes his way to the common room, and is almost halfway through making his espresso before someone clears their throat. 

Spinning around, Tony panics for a brief second (is it aliens again? Just your run of the mill murderer?) but then his eyes find Steve’s, and his heart rate slows down. It’s just Steve. That thought wouldn’t have calmed him before today, but things are different now. At least, that’s what he’s counting on when he gives the blond a weak smile that he knows the good Captain hasn’t bought for an instant. “Why’re you up, then?” he asks. 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “I could say the same thing to you.”

He waves a spoon at the other man. “Hey, no deflection. That’s my tactic.” Grabbing his steaming mug of black coffee, he perches on the counter, feet trailing against the tiled floor. Tony registers, then, that Steve’s got a newspaper clutched in his hands, the old-fashioned paper and ink kind, and that would make him wince if this was anyone but Cap. He’s sitting on one of the couches, cross-legged, with a light blanket over his lap that doesn’t cover the tips of his knees peeking out on either side. Tony lets his mind go to a few extremely inappropriate places before realizing that this is Captain fuckin’ America, and that he’s obviously wearing boxers or shorts or _something_ underneath that blanket. “So, Capsicle, why’re you glaring daggers at that newspaper instead of sleeping? You looked pretty beat, earlier.”

Steve shakes his head, letting the newspaper flutter to the ground. “Don’t need that much sleep, you know, with the serum,” he says quietly. Tony knows that’s not all to it, but he doesn’t push. He’s usually all for instigating people, but right now he thinks they both need a breather. So he shrugs, accepts the half-excuse. “You?”

Tony’s hands tighten around the handle of his mug as he tries desperately to focus on the design of the ceramic. Who even owns a Donald Duck mug anyway? (He’s kidding, that’s clearly Clint’s). “Adrenaline. From the battle. Happens to me a lot, you know, can’t sleep until it wears off.” He takes a sip of the scalding hot coffee and doesn’t even flinch when it burns his throat as it goes down (God knows it’s better than the cold anyway). “I was gonna watch a movie, but if you’re reading, I can just do that in my room,” he says. And, okay, fine, he’s improvising, but it’s not like a movie sounds awful right now. 

“Oh,” Steve says, before picking up his newspaper and folding it up quickly. “Of course not. I mean, it’s your house. I should be the one leaving.” He makes to stand up, but then Tony slides off the countertop and walks over to the other man, freezing him in place. “Really, I can go. You probably want to be alone, right?”

And usually, he does, but he can’t bring himself to send Steve away right now. “ _Au contraire_ , Captain, I’m hardly one to turn down the company of America’s greatest icon.” He grins up at Steve, who’s still awkwardly standing by the couch, and gestures for him to sit. “So, what are you in the mood to watch, huh? Lemme guess, the Scooby-Doo movie?”

Steve slowly sits back down, pulling his blanket back over his legs (Tony observes his American flag-patterned shorts with amusement before realizing that it looks like he’s getting an eyeful of Captain America’s star-spangled crotch and looking up hurriedly). “I have no idea what that is,” he tells Tony, with almost childish curiosity in his voice, “Is it any good?”

“Okay, we’re watching it,” Tony tells him, sighing in mock-resignation. If Natasha or, God forbid, Barton ever finds out about this— this movie night, he’s going to have to deal with _weeks_ of ribbing. He finds that Steve’s small smile kind of makes it worth it, though. So they’re watching the Scooby-Doo movie, because sometimes that just happens, alright?

“I’m sorry,” Steve says a little later, right when Tony had begun to think that he was asleep. He blinks at the other man, trying to figure out what he meant. If he’s a bit grateful for the distraction, because he was almost lulled to sleep too, well, there’s no way the Captain would ever know about it. “For what I said, earlier.”

"You said a lot of things,” Tony points out, and it’s only when Steve glares at him does he roll his eyes and say, “The helicarrier. I know.” He sees the irritated look fade into one of remorse, and, hell, this is almost worse. Anger, he can deal with. But this— he’s not used to Captain America apologizing to him. So he looks away, lets his eyes settle on the movie despite not seeing a thing. 

“I didn’t mean any of it,” Steve says sincerely. He can practically hear the earnestness in his voice, which is both endearing and kind of frustrating. 

“Yeah, you did,” Tony responds after a few uncomfortable seconds of silence. 

“Then, maybe. But I was wrong. Tony, look at me,” and it’s not like he can refuse an order from his Captain, can he? Steve’s eyes are sharp, unwavering, and they pierce through him like they can see every insecurity and flaw that Tony’s managed to hide under about a billion layers of egocentrism and sarcastic humor. They probably can, for that matter. “I misjudged you. You’re a better man than most people give you credit for, and definitely a far better man than I did. So I’m sorry.” And Tony would scoff in his face, except—

He tries to take a gulp of his coffee and realizes that it’s empty, damn it. So he stands up, walks back over to the coffee machine, and thanks his past self for conveniently placing it so he doesn’t have to actually look at Steve when he talks. “Okay,” Tony says. He focuses on the familiarity of the whirr of the machine, and when that doesn’t help a bit, he adds: “For the record, I’m sorry too.”

"I know you are,” Steve says. “But I think you needed to hear my apology more than I needed to hear yours.”

“What kind of fucked up psychology is this, Rogers? They teach you that back in the 40s?” he snaps, trying his best to hide the fact that his shoulders are kind of trembling. Oh, and his hands, too. Great. 

He hears a sigh from behind him, and knows that he hasn't taken the bait no matter how much Tony wanted him to. “Maybe I’m overstepping.” _You are_ , Tony thinks, but doesn’t interrupt. “But I screwed up. All those years of punching assholes in dark alleyways, and I still managed to be a bully to you. I know you’re tough, and can hold your own, but— I should’ve been better than everyone else who just took you at face value and decided that you’re a, how’d you put it? Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.”

Tony finally turns to face him, and he hopes that Steve doesn’t see the way his jaw is clenched tight. “Why do you have to be so, so, ugh— so perfect? Even dear old Howard only ever saw me that way. Hell, you’d have to take the genius part away, because he never ever thought I was smart enough.” He closes his mouth abruptly, cursing the sleep deprivation for making him talk about _him_ , and cursing Steve for being so fucking easy to talk to. Steve, who seems almost frozen in place, like he’d been shoved right back into the ice again. Guilt pricks at his insides, and he kind of wishes he hadn’t said that, even though none of it was a lie. _The poor guy’s barely had a chance to get used to waking up in a new century and you’re already ruining what little he has of his first life?_ It’s selfish, really, and it’s not like he’d expect Steve to stop missing Howard, even if the Howard he knew was nothing like the Howard Tony did. 

Then Steve shakes his head, almost like he’s clearing his thoughts, and he has the same steely look in his eyes that Tony saw a mere few hours before, back in the battle. “If I could go back in time,” Steve says, and he can’t tell whether the blond sounds happy or sad in that moment, “I’d punch _dear old Howard_ in the face.” 

Tony stares at him, because that’s not what he was expecting at all. And then, all of a sudden, he’s laughing. Steve stares at him, and all he can do is chuckle, doubling over to clutch at his stomach because, God, Howard would’ve had a heart attack if he’d heard his idol talk about him like that. When he’s done at last, wiping the tears from his eyes, he still feels awful, don’t get him wrong. But maybe he feels a little less awful than before. “Thank you,” he says, voice serious all of a sudden. 

Steve shakes his head and walks over, and before Tony can even register what he’s doing, his hand is prying the mug of coffee from his own grip with surprising gentleness, and the unfamiliarity of it all is what Tony will attribute to him relinquishing his hold of it later. “Get some sleep,” he says softly, setting the coffee down on the counter with a sharp clink. 

“Nightmares,” Tony says quietly, but the exhaustion is suddenly tugging hard at his bones, and he fights the urge to let his eyelids flutter shut and finally sleep. The admission doesn’t surprise Steve: rather, from the way his eyes turn down and his mouth purses, Tony figures that’s not a reason for being up this late that’s exclusive to him alone. “You know how it goes.”

“How about this?” Steve asks, taking his hand once again (and damn it, Steve’s callused hand is soft at the exact same time, and warm, and all too real as his fingers settle solidly on Tony’s skin, and this shouldn’t make him feel like he’s a swooning teenager all over again) and leading him back to the couch. The Scooby Doo movie’s still going on, and Steve grabs the remote, only fiddling with it for a few seconds before finding the volume button and turning it down so the sounds become an almost imperceptible hum. “Get some rest, and I’ll keep watch. If you’re having a nightmare, I’ll wake you up, and we can watch another movie… something better, though, please?”

“Fuck off, the Scooby Doo movie’s a cinematic masterpiece,” Tony mutters, but it’s not a _no_. Which Steve apparently decides is a yes, and so he lets himself sink into the couch and huddle underneath Steve’s blanket. It’s nothing compared to his California king bed, the expensive mattress and the heavy comforter, and he can’t tell if it’s Steve or the fact that his standards have been impossibly lowered by the haze of tiredness that’s settled upon him, but this is a hundred times better. Hey, he should sleep here more often. 

“What about you?” he mumbles, once Steve’s settled down beside him, blinking quickly so he comes into focus. “Once I wake up, you can have your turn. S’only fair.”

Once upon a time, he would’ve flinched at hearing himself talk like that, because, “Speak up, boy, I don’t like fools who mumble,” but Steve just nods, giving him a smile that makes Tony’s heart flutter in that annoying way yet again. It's definitely the sleep deprivation, nothing to call the press over, but Steve is looking at him with that weird mixture of guilt-sadness-admiration-wonder that makes his head spin, and-- yeah, it's  _definitely_ the sleep deprivation. Obviously. 

“We can do that,” Steve tells him, and it’s all he needs before he’s out. The darkness overtakes him, and as he relaxes, he feels the comforting warmth of a certain super soldier pulling the blanket up over his chest. And damn, he thinks that maybe, just possibly, he can even get used to this. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this hshghshssj it's not perfect but if you too love Steve and Tony hit me up at prongsiest.tumblr.com.


End file.
